700th Sanja Matsuri

This year, the twenty-fourth year of Heisei, marks the seven hundredth anniversary of the Sanja Matsuri. The festival commemorates the founding of Sensoji, Tokyo's oldest temple, which was built to house a statue of the goddess Kannon.

Yesterday, the various portable parish shrines (or mikoshi) had been paraded on palanquins to Sensoji for blessing. Today, on the third and final day of the festivities, it is the turn of Sensoji's own portable shrines – the ichinomiya, ninomiya and sannomiya: the three holiest shrines in the district – to tour the parish. Weighing up to a ton each, the shrines are borne by a mix of shrine parishioners and volunteers, all dressed in matching happi coats. In a cacophony of cries ('Yoi-sa! Ha!'), hand claps and festival music, they totter down the main temple avenue, jouncing and jolting the mikoshi along the way to energise (some say entertain) the resident spirits.

Hanami

'What is wabi-sabi?' I once asked some Japanese friends.
'Wabi-sabi? It is very Japanese…'
A long pause.
'It is like Japanese tea ceremony. Or hanami (sakura viewing), or koyo (autumn leaves). These are very wabi-sabi.'

Wabi-sabi is a quintessentially Japanese aesthetic consciousness, derived from an appreciation of the impermanence of things. Wabi (侘) stands for simplicity and restraint, while sabi (寂) connotes age and desolation. Wabi-sabi is therefore an understated beauty, often found in nature, with all its imperfection and decay: fading flowers, turning leaves…

At its profoundest level, wabi-sabi is ineffable: an emotional response to transience, a sensibility to change that can only be experienced, not explained. Drawn from Zen Buddhism, it is what the Japanese call mono no aware (物の哀れ), a pathos for the passing of all things.

Naka-Meguro in Tokyo is a good place to catch the cherry blossoms. On a Sunday evening at the height of sakura season, however, the crowds are out in force, and the festive – almost boisterous – atmosphere does not lend itself to an appreciation of wabi-sabi. So I retire instead with two Japanese verses in translation, which encapsulate wabi-sabi and hanami for me:

'If cherry blossoms in their pride
Covered the far-flung mountainside
Day after day the summer through
Should we praise them as we do?'
-  Man’yoshu (Collection of Ten Thousand Leaves)
   (eighth century anthology) 

'The Spring has come and once again
The sun shines in the sky;
So gently smile the Heavens that
It almost makes me cry
When blossoms droop and die.'
-  Tomonori Ki
   Hyakunin-Isshiu (A Hundred Verses from A Hundred Poets)
   (thirteenth century anthology)

Tokyo Sunrise

It is a bitterly cold night, and I have nowhere to go and no means of getting there.

As luck would have it, I stumble into the lower ground floor of the Marunouchi Building to find the Japanese Self-Defence Force handing out rugs and blankets to commuters stranded for the night. There is an orderly queue for blankets, and another orderly queue for the public telephones as the mobile networks are down. The crowd is largely Japanese and well-heeled. No-one shoves or jostles or raises their voice. A few excitable youngsters prance around snapping shots on their smartphones, but the prevailing mood is one of weary resignation. Everyone is unfailingly civil and polite.

I spread a grey rug on the ground, bundle myself in a cream blanket, and snuggle up against what I hope is a load-bearing pillar. There is a display case containing a ¥30,000 handbag above my head, and stores with plate-glass window displays all around – but no vandalism or looting.

I find myself admiring the deeply dignified response to a national calamity.

It is impossible to sleep, of course. A little further down the corridor a television screen flickers with rolling news coverage of the earthquake and footage of the devastation in the north of the country. Every so often, a little alarm would go off, signalling fresh aftershocks in cities I have never heard of.

An elderly lady settles down opposite me. They have run out of blankets, so I offer her mine. She accepts it gratefully, with a hint of embarrassment. Next to her lie an elderly couple, dozing quietly hand in hand. I slip on my jacket and shut my eyes.

At four in the morning, a young man comes round to post a notice. Thinking it might be important, I ask someone to translate, but it only reads: 'Marubiru Hall 7F: Today's Japanese craft exhibition has been postponed owing to yesterday's earthquake.'

The metro starts running again sometime after five. The trains are packed with people trying to get home. I head for the expatriate enclave of Roppongi, and emerge to daybreak over eerily still and quiet streets – a silent sunrise in the land of the rising sun.

14:42 Nozomi to Tokyo

I awaken to find that the train has stopped. I am not entirely sure where we are, but everyone in the carriage is texting away furiously. Something is amiss – Japanese bullet trains do not make unscheduled stops in the middle of nowhere. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the kanji for 'earthquake' (地震) flash up on the electronic indicator board at the front of the carriage. I have never been in an earthquake, but I know that earthquakes are not unusual here – Japan has to be the most earthquake-prone (and earthquake-prepared) nation in the world. Nothing to fear, then. Instead, I feel a mild sense of annoyance. Will I be late for a dinner appointment in Tokyo this evening? Vaguely disgruntled, I drowse off again…

'Ladies and gentlemen, we will shortly make a brief stop at Nagoya station.'
I re-awaken to find we are nearly 35 minutes behind schedule, and decide to borrow a mobile to 'phone a friend.
'Where are you? Have you heard the news?' she asks.
'No – tell me.'
'We've only been hit by the biggest earthquake ever.'
'Oh really?'
'We've all been evacuated from the office. I'm not sure if J and J are still up for dinner, but all the restaurants will be shut. Don't count on getting in before nine – but ring me when you do!'

Nine in the evening! She's not wrong, as it happens. We pull into Nagoya station and spend the remainder of the afternoon there. A long and intricate message scrolls along the indicator board in Japanese*, but the English text only reads: 'Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Shinkansen. This is the Nozomi superexpress bound for Tokyo. We will be stopping at Shin-Yokohama, Shinagawa stations before arriving at Tokyo terminal.'

Sometime after 19:30, I succumb to a packet of sandwiches and a small bottle of red. At 20:00, the boredom sets in and I finally decide to venture out onto the platform to grab a Nagoya miso-katsu bento. They appear to be letting the southbound trains through to Kyoto, but the trains for Tokyo are still being held at the station.

We eventually set off again sometime after 20:30, and arrive in Tokyo at 23:20 – over six hours late. A record, no doubt, for one of the few rail services you can still set your watch to!

* I later learn that the Japanese message reads: 'Today's earthquake has had a significant impact on the Tōhoku and Kantō regions. It was the largest earthquake, with a magnitude of 8.4 on the Richter scale. A tsunami warning is in place between Aomori and Wakayama. In the Kantō region 400,000 homes are without electricity.'

Up in Alms in Ginza

Met up with an old friend for an elaborate tofu lunch at Umenohana today.

We saunter through glitzy Ginza afterwards, in search of the famous old kabuki theatre. It saddens me to learn that certain vested interests have been threatening to raze it to the ground - no doubt to erect some brutalist glass and concrete structure in its place. Aren't there enough of these modern monstrosities the world over?

As chance would have it, we come across a monk in winter robes, begging for alms in the shadow of a neon screen. Here is Japan - ancient and modern!

Tokyo Diner

It's past ten by the time the day's demands are over. I venture out, hungry, into the wet, wintry night, and stumble into a little diner not too far from the hotel. The proprietor, a middle-aged Japanese man with thinning hair, bellows out a greeting and gestures me towards a free table. It's late, and the tone of conversation in the diner is mellow. I settle between a group of salary men (tucking somewhat incongruously into a shared plate of sliced tomatoes and some vegetable sticks poked into a tumbler of ice) and a slightly intoxicated mixed group prone to bouts of immoderate female laughter. Above the conviviality, every so often, came the soft tinkle of a wind-chime catching a draught from the air-conditioner.

The menu set before me is entirely in Japanese – a little sheet of elegant squiggles that I cannot decipher.
'Sumimasen, Ingrishu menu,' I ask.
'No Ingrish menu,' replies the proprietor. Had he just responded in English? Rare in this country! Instead, he proposes some grilled fish and rice, and a bowl of miso soup. The thought of miso makes me thirsty, and I order a 'small biru' as well.

The beer, when it arrives, is surprisingly rich and malty. Someone once told me that most Far Eastern breweries had learnt their craft from the Germans. There is nothing in the Japanese draught to disprove the hypothesis – it is superbly drinkable. I've had a long flight, and it's been a long day. On an empty stomach, the brew goes straight to my head, and I slowly drowse off in the warm interior...

When I next open my eyes, a simple meal has been set in front of me. A whole grilled fish, looking something like mackerel, on a square ceramic dish; some sticky Japanese rice; a side serving of tofu; and some piping hot miso soup dished up in a black lacquer bowl. The proprietor looks at me quizzically, and I nod to show him I'm all right - and grateful for the meal.

A small and slightly stooped lady emerges from the kitchen to clear up when I'm done. Was this the proprietor's wife and the good lady who had cooked my dinner? Her eyes are kindly, and the glances she gives me are strangely maternal, although there are probably not more than ten years between us. She has no English, but accompanies me to the door as I leave.
'Arigato,' I say, with a stiff little bow.
'Arigatou gozaimashita,' she says, bowing as well, and waving a little wave as I step back out into the cold, dark night.